


Head in the Clouds

by likearecord



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Airplane Sex, Blow Jobs, Consent is foreplay RT, Established Relationship, Kevin Day's prejudice against things that taste good, Kevin would like very much to be excluded from this narrative, M/M, One that he never asked to be part of, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:22:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24418075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likearecord/pseuds/likearecord
Summary: Neil learns about the mile-high club. He can think of a use for that.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 41
Kudos: 543





	Head in the Clouds

Neil gets the idea during one of the routine and ill-advised sessions of Never Have I Ever that the upperclassmen seem to like so much. He’s great at this game. He almost never has to drink. And sometimes, he learns new things.

“Never have I ever…” Allison pauses to consider, waving her glass carelessly in the air while her glazed eyes focus somewhere in the middle distance. “ _Oooh_ ,” she croons excitedly, “never have I ever _joined the mile high club_.” 

Matt takes a long sip of his drink, swallowing with a satisfied smacking noise. More quietly, Renee tips her soda back; she blinks innocently in the face of Allison’s delighted stare. Neil lets his eyes shuffle around the rest of the circle. He notices Kevin taking a generous pull from the bottle of vodka in his hand. Next to him, Nicky takes a triumphant sip and then, pointedly, a second one. 

“Um,” Neil says. He feels every head swivel in unison towards him and rushes to clarify before they start making wild assumptions. “I have no idea what that is.” 

“Of course you don’t,” Allison says. She gestures towards him, saving the rim of her glass from overflow only by virtue of how much of it she’s already emptied. “You’re too pure for this world.” 

Nicky straightens from his loose slump, eyes brightening. “It’s sex on a plane,” Kevin says abruptly. 

“Hey,” Nicky protests. “I was going to—”

“You were going to make it weird,” Aaron interrupts, flatly. 

“Sex,” Neil repeats, slowly. “On a plane.” 

“You know,” Nicky says, brightening again, “there are some versions of this game where you have to tell the _story_ when you drink.” 

Neil watches the upperclassmen’s body language change, covering wide swaths of the spectrum between _absolutely not_ and _hell yes_. Before anyone can chime in on this idea, Andrew leans forward, grabbing a bottle to refill his glass. “No,” he says firmly. “Never have I ever tried to get laid by giving someone a lecture about the food they just ordered.” 

Kevin’s face is too flushed to tell if he’s mad, but he takes an especially long drink from his bottle. Neil ignores the chorus of whoops and groans from the others and watches Andrew’s profile instead, thinking about the potential of this new information. Sex on a plane. He might have a use for that.

. . . 

They don’t end up at an airport until a couple of months later, heading to Austin, the team spread out in little huddles around the gate. Neil watches Andrew as he repeatedly taps a cigarette out of a carton, flips the box over, and taps it back in. He can’t light up in the terminal and he hasn’t dug out a pen yet, but Neil can tell by the almost imperceptible jitter of Andrew’s knee that his anxiety is starting to build.

“Allison said,” Neil starts, then hesitates as he tries to decide which language to continue in. They’re probably far enough from most of the team that English is safe, but Kevin’s a few seats down and across the aisle, so maybe not. German should be fine, too, as neither Nicky nor Aaron are close enough to overhear, but it’s still not a language that feels totally secure in its privacy. Russian, of course, would be best, but they’re still learning and neither of them has fleshed out into real fluency yet. 

“Allison said,” Andrew repeats. Anyone else would have put a question mark at the end as a prompt, but Andrew rarely indulges in questions. He’s fidgeting with the cigarette carton, but he’s not flipping it anymore and his knee is still, so Neil’s diversionary tactics are at least making some inroads.

Russian, Neil decides. “Before. In September. When we played the drinking game,” he says haltingly, searching his vocabulary for the right words. 

Andrew stills completely, then narrows his eyes a little. Neil knows Andrew’s eidetic memory is flipping through the taunts and dirty jokes and making connections. 

Neil steels himself and forges on. “She talked about…ah, love on a plane.” He could clarify, but “sex” is basically “sex” in both Russian and German, so he’ll leave Andrew to extrapolate.

“She did,” Andrew confirms after a silent moment. His eyes are narrowed enough now that even someone who didn’t know him well would be able to spot it. 

“So,” Neil says, back in Russian, then hesitates again. If he offers this solely as a service to ease Andrew’s nerves, he’ll get an automatic no. He’s not sure he can convince Andrew that he’s always had a fantasy about doing something he hadn’t even heard of until two months ago either. The truth is somewhere in the middle. He likes displacing Andrew’s pain with pleasure more than he likes anything else. And he’d be lying to himself if he said he didn’t get a thrill out of the potential for being walked in on when they push their boundaries in some corner of the locker room or Eden’s. And honestly…It’s probably a bad idea to limit Andrew’s processing of this idea at all, actually. “So, you decide. Yes or no.”

He holds Andrew’s gaze for a few long moments, calmly enduring the scrutiny until Andrew faces forward again and finds a new way to fidget with his cigarette carton. Neil tugs an exy magazine from his bag and reads about the Hornets’ retiring striker until they finally start calling for boarding. 

Andrew is tenser than usual when he stands and herds them the way he wants them: Kevin first, then Neil, with Andrew at their backs. As usual, Kevin takes long enough to interpret Andrew’s silent direction that Andrew has to resort to gestures. Neil falls into line easily. Andrew’s reasoning becomes clear when they finally reach their row; Kevin folds easily into the window seat, Neil into the middle, and Andrew slouches into the aisle, watching the rest of the boarding passengers with an expression that somehow marries indifference and murder. He still doesn’t have a pen in his hand, but his index and middle finger rub against each other like he’s fidgeting with one anyway. 

He watches a harried-looking woman in a suit with particular malice, fingers stilling. Neil doesn’t realize how closely he’s been watching Andrew until his hand raises and pushes Neil’s face forward. “145%,” Andrew says tightly. 

“It was 160 when we were packing,” Neil counters.

“No one asked you.” 

On his other side, Neil feels Kevin give up on posture and slump against the window. They’d had to get up at 6 to get to the airport on time, so Kevin’s been up for 5 hours now, all of them sorely lacking either practice or alcohol. Of course, he wouldn’t actually drink, not with a game tonight, but Kevin always copes better with Andrew’s sharper edges with a little liquor in him. 

Neil wonders how, after all he’s survived, his happy place turned out to be here, between the two prickliest men he’s ever met. 

“Here,” he sighs, tugging his backpack out from under the seat. He digs until he finds the overpriced raw organic protein bar he’d brought for Kevin, who perks up enough to snatch it from his fingers. Andrew’s drumming fingers slow a little, but he refuses to give Neil more attention than the slide of his eyes towards the backpack. Neil digs again and pulls out a big bag of M&Ms. They should last Andrew longer and require more attention than a candy bar would; it’s more of a distraction than finishing a Snickers in four bites.

Andrew’s fingers speed up in their drumming; Neil watches the gears move in his head, probably weighing the joy of candy against giving Neil the satisfaction of having done something nice for him. 

“You shouldn’t enable him like that,” Kevin huffs. 

And that, of course, does the trick—Andrew promptly plucks the bag out of Neil’s palm and turns his considerable focus to neatly opening it. 

“I’m enabling you, too,” Neil points out. “That’s a $6 protein bar.”

“It’s all candy,” Andrew says flatly. “Don’t kid yourself.” 

“ _Candy?_ ” Kevin sputters. “This has _four ingredients_ and they’re all _actual food_.” 

“You should calm down,” Andrew says. He’s searching the inside of the bag and finally emerges, looking satisfied, with four blue M&Ms. “Hysterical isn’t a good look on you.”

Kevin is so outraged he has no response, his mouth opening and closing silently a few times. Eventually he gives up, huffs, takes a vicious bite of his protein bar, and turns to stare out at the action on the tarmac. 

Neil clears his throat pointedly when the plane starts to swing into place for take-off, but all he gets in return is the transfer of Andrew’s glare to him, briefly; it soon returns to the inside of his M&M bag. 

“All out of blue?” Neil asks lightly. Andrew glares again, but his hand clenches more tightly around the bag as the plane speeds up. “You’re going to crush them,” Neil says, tugging it from Andrew’s grip. He offers his hand up instead. “You’ll have more fun breaking this.”

The glare doesn’t lose any of its potency, but Andrew relents and grabs Neil’s hand, slotting their fingers together with vicious efficiency. “I hate you,” he grumbles. 

Neil’s sure that the split between anger and love in that statement has never been more even. Instead of responding, he tips his head back against his seat and closes his eyes, hoping that he can depersonalize the hand in Andrew’s crushing grip by not looking at him at all. Neil feels the take off--the wheels rumbling over the texture of the tarmac beneath them, the impossible lurch of that moment when the plane settles into being airborne, the steep, sudden incline that makes the back of his mouth taste sharp. 

As the plane levels out, Andrew’s grip loosens and the feeling starts returning to Neil’s hand. He keeps his fingers loosely curled against Andrew’s, easy to separate from if Andrew gets sick of it. He waits another five or so minutes before he opens his eyes and surreptitiously tries to read Andrew’s face. Andrew never misses a thing, though, so he immediately shakes his fingers free and turns his unimpressed face on Neil, his hand extended expectantly. Neil sets the bag of candy back into his palm and smirks as Andrew dips into it and emerges with a few green M&Ms. Kevin sends another disapproving look at the candy but keeps his mouth shut this time. 

When Kevin’s efforts to start reviewing UT’s lineup are met with a death threat from Andrew, Neil digs his magazine out of his backpack and studies a review of the newest updates of exy sticks. He’s so absorbed in the benefits of the Mercury 1800 over the 1750 that he almost misses it when Andrew casually says, “Yes.” 

Neil blinks at him, then at the orange M&Ms in his palm. He remembers their sex on a plane conversation at the exact moment that the _Fasten Seatbelts_ light chimes off. 

“Oh,” he says, stupidly, then rushes to correct himself when Andrew narrows his eyes suspiciously at him. “Yes, awesome. How do--” 

Andrew cuts him off with a hand over his mouth, staring pointedly at him until he remembers that they are, in fact, surrounded by a couple hundred people, chief among them Kevin, who’d already had a front row seat Andrew’s spectacular “doesn’t mean I wouldn’t blow you” moment at Eden’s.

“Right,” Neil mumbles against Andrew’s palm. 

After a moment, Andrew drops his hand and switches to Russian. “I get up. You follow.” 

“Um,” Neil says, considering. “Will that be...big? Loud?” He really needs to improve his vocabulary for setting up assignations in Russian. How do you say _obvious_?

“No,” Andrew answers. “People know you need a chaperone.” 

When did Andrew learn how to say chaperone in Russian? Although, to be fair, it’s not a bad vocabulary choice when you spend as much time around Neil as he does. 

This time, it’s Neil’s turn to bounce his knee rapidly, waiting for Andrew to decide he’s ready to go. He’s not sure why he’s nervous. He doesn’t care if people figure it out and he doesn’t care if they get in trouble, but if it becomes a scene they’ll never hear the end of it from the Foxes. It would probably become a PSU legend that would haunt them through their alumni years. 

Of course, Andrew is indifferent and matter-of-fact when he stands up a few minutes later. Neil lets instinct and habit take over, slipping out of his seat to follow a few feet behind Andrew as he strides calmly towards the back of the plane. He casually steps into the bathroom and holds the door for Neil. He locks it but doesn’t double-check to make sure that the sign says _occupied_.

Now that they’re here, Neil realizes there are a few gaps in his plan. Number one: what exactly is it they’re going to do now? He leans against the wall opposite to where Andrew’s propped against the sink. The room is so small that even as far apart as they can be, their legs still slot together. He looks up at Andrew for guidance, but Andrew simply watches him impassively, waiting. 

Neil thinks. He knows that if Andrew had any specific boundaries in this situation, he’d be taking control. This is Neil’s show.

They could do handjobs, but that sounds messy and time-consuming and, if he’s being honest, a little bit of a let down in the “things to drink about in Never Have I Ever” department. Besides, what thrills him about this isn’t just its novelty or its semi-public nature; it’s the idea of making Andrew feel incredibly good in a place he usually just feels awful. 

“I could blow you,” he says, firm in his decision. “I want to.”

Andrew pauses, then nods. 

Neil’s pretty sure a nod isn’t good enough for them here, doing this new thing, so he waits. The moment stretches until Andrew huffs, rolling his eyes. “Yes, Junkie,” he says. It should probably be patronizing. Neil just thinks it’s hot. 

He eases down onto his knees--a process that involves both him and Andrew carefully maneuvering around each other until Neil’s kneeling between Andrews spread legs. He lifts his hands to the button on Andrew’s jeans but hovers there without making contact. “Where can I touch you?”

“Hips.” Andrew pauses to consider, then adds, “Legs.” 

He doesn’t make any move to take over undoing his jeans, so Neil carefully unbuttons and then unzips them. He slides his hands between the fabric and Andrew’s skin, cupping his hands around Andrew’s hips and pulling the jeans down as he slides his palms down Andrew’s thighs. 

He’s been told that most people find Andrew’s boundaries to be an irritation; it’s too much of a constraint, a definite mood-killer. Neil doesn’t get how they could possibly be so blind to the intense intimacy of consciously touching only where touching is wanted, how they could resent caring enough for Andrew’s pleasure that you were sure not to break it for him, how they could fail to appreciate the gift of Andrew wanting you so badly he let your hands beneath his armor.

Neil works Andrew’s boxer briefs down as carefully as he’d moved the jeans and gives himself a moment just to look at him. Andrew is hard already, flushed and slightly leaking. The hair around the base of his cock is a darker gold than the almost translucent trail that leads up to his bellybutton. Neil wraps his hand around the base of Andrew’s cock and looks up to gauge his expression. Andrew is quietly watching him, his face still but his eyes molten. The only tell is the way he adjusts and then readjusts the curl of his hands around the counter behind him. 

Neil drops his gaze and allows his eyes to flutter closed, giving Andrew as much privacy as he can. He licks blindly for the tip of Andrew’s dick and wraps his mouth around its head as soon as he traces the shape of it with the tip of his tongue. 

He knows that time is of the essence, so he wastes very little of it. They’ve done this a handful of times; not enough for Neil to become an expert, but enough that he’s catalogued the things that seem to get Andrew there faster. He’s not sure this is some kind of mysterious alchemy; Andrew likes wet, smooth, and steady. He does not like to be teased. 

The weight of Andrew on his tongue when he works his lips down the shaft to meet his knuckles makes his mouth water. He moans, greedily adjusting his position so he can bob down a little further, coating more of Andrew’s cock in slick spit. He sets up a stubborn rhythm, pushing far enough that he’s just shy of gagging every time the head of Andrew’s cock nudges the back of his throat. The room is quiet--Andrew is always quiet, but Neil can barely hear Andrew’s rapid breath over the wet sound of the rhythm of his mouth. 

It seems like only a couple of minutes before Andrew tangles his fingers up in Neil’s hair and tugs lightly. Neil opens his eyes long enough to see the flush on Andrew’s cheeks, the bitten-red of his bottom lip, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard. Andrew tugs again, harder, but Neil ignores him in favor of sucking when he pulls off, cheeks hollowing. He sucks in air through his nose; the faster he moves, the less time he has to breathe on each push down. 

Andrew likes fast, but he doesn’t like frantic; Neil finds the sweet spot in his pace, moaning again when a fresh wave of pre-come washes over his tongue. Andrew says, “Neil,” tightly, a last effort to warn him that it’s almost too late to pull off and finish him by hand. 

Neil shuffles an inch closer, knees dragging along the sides of Andrew’s shoes. He hums encouragingly and feels when Andrew lets go. Andrew’s stomach tenses impossibly tight, hard where Neil’s nose and knuckles are brushing against it. The fingers in Neil’s hair tighten, still nowhere near painful. Andrew jerks centimeters off the counter before the thick salt of his come pulses onto Neil’s tongue. Neil keeps his mouth still, stroking Andrew with his hand until he’s finished coming, swallowing a few times so he doesn’t make a mess. 

He’s painfully hard himself, but he doesn’t intend to do anything about it, so he rests his forehead against Andrew’s hip while he catches his breath. He keeps his hand wrapped around Andrew’s cock until it softens--he doesn’t want to just drop it and let the delicate skin slap against Andrew’s open zipper. 

Andrew keeps his fingers in Neil’s hair, lightly stroking his scalp until Neil is breathing easily again. He disentangles them once Neil’s breath has a steady rhythm, but he doesn’t move to push him away. Neil straightens so Andrew can tug his jeans up and fasten them. 

“You?” Andrew asks. 

“No.” Neil’s voice is rough. He desperately wants some ice water. “Not right now. We should get back.” 

Andrew nods, but his attention is tightly focused on Neil’s still slightly panting mouth. He traces his thumb just under the curve of Neil’s bottom lip, which Neil knows must be red and swollen and still very wet. 

Neil needs Andrew’s help to make his way back onto his feet. He wobbles a little before he can straighten and flex his legs, feeling a little more light-headed than he should after a few minutes on his knees. Andrew is still staring at him, at his mouth. Neil is tempted to look at himself in the mirror but decides not to. He knows he won’t see anything he likes better than the look on Andrew’s face right now. 

Just as calmly as he’d entered, Andrew turns and opens the door. He steps out, holding the door open for Neil, who trails Andrew back up the aisle, feeling a little scandalous. He’s always a little worried people are watching him, but this time he’s surprised that no one looks up like they know Neil still has the taste of Andrew on his tongue. 

They make it back to their seats without incident, balancing their way up the aisle that appears to be still but feels a little unsteady underfoot. --Andrew has to Walk past their row to let Neil slip back into the middle; he seems to catch someone’s eye for a moment. Neil prays to every god he’s ever heard of that it isn’t Nicky, waggling his eyebrows knowingly at them. If Nicky caught on, Neil isn’t sure which one of them would kill him first.

He’s buckling back in when Kevin straightens from his slump, his eyes narrowed accusingly. He looks like he’s gearing up for a lecture, but before he can say anything, Andrew’s bored voice interrupts the silence. “UT?” he prompts, then shamelessly pulls out his AirPods and slips them into his ears. Kevin predictably brightens and leans forward to retrieve the files in his bag. He's already bubbling over with essential new (not new) observations about the UT lineup.

Kevin starts enthusiastically reciting the stats and weaknesses they’ve all discussed at least a half-dozen times. Neil lets the familiar numbers wash over him as his pulse returns to normal and his dick gets less obviously hard under the cover of his oversized sweater. He knows Andrew would say it’s pathetic, but there’s something life-affirming in the fact that he gets to do this now: sit with Kevin and have the most important thing on their minds be exy. They fill the remaining hours of the flight with a painstakingly detailed analysis of the UT defensive line. Andrew ignores them completely.

This time, though, as the plane begins its descent, Andrew slides their hands together unprompted.

**Author's Note:**

> First foray into this fandom that has completely eaten my brain.
> 
> I sincerely apologize for the title.


End file.
